Two Steps Back
by Joey51
Summary: Just what the kid needs, another reason to question his place in this family. - A look at the depressive doubts that constantly trigger Ryan to question his place in his new life. COMPLETE
1. The Hangover

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Two Steps Back

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

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A/N - This is a follow-up piece to 'One Step Forward' - but if you haven't read it, I don't think that the back-story is absolutely necessary in order to understand this fic. Similar to 'One Step Forward,' this story will be five (longer) parts and all in first person, but focuses mainly on Ryan's thoughts. 

Kirsten - Ryan

-The Hangover-

I slam the phone down in frustration, immediately resting my head in my hands as I sort through the plethora of information and direction with which my father had just bombarded me. I almost regret canceling those meetings, because it sounds like he's going to use it against me for at least the next year, and I can be sure that if there are any issues at all with this new development, this 'personal day' will be at the center of his problem identification. It's a guilt trip that's all too familiar in dealings with my father.

It makes me wonder if he would have reacted same the way if I had told him that it was Seth who was sick, resulting in my absence from the office. Maybe I'm reading too much into it, but I know that Dad has done anything but welcome Ryan into the family with open arms. I assume that he acts the way he does to indirectly harass Sandy, but his indifference is undoubtedly detected by Ryan. Just what the kid needs, another reason to question his place in this family. 

The clock chimes its hourly declaration, and I glance at my watch to note that it's already eleven o'clock. That repugnant phone call lasted over an hour - no wonder I have a headache. I turn around and reach into the cupboard behind me, grabbing two mugs and filling them with the fresh, piping hot coffee. The aroma alone eases the tension that has gripped my overwhelmed brain. After adding the appropriate quantity of cream to each of the mugs, I clutch the large handles and make my way out to the poolhouse. 

I'm actually surprised that Ryan's still asleep. I can't ever recall a time when he needed assistance waking up before school - a rare feat for any teenager - so the fact that he's slept the majority of the previous twenty-four hours away, seems distinctly out of character. He obviously needed the rest.

I awkwardly open the poolhouse door, paying close attention to the mug that's tucked between my arm and stomach, the liquid dancing perilously close to the lip. I wince as some of the steaming fluid leaps onto my hand, forcing me to quickly rearrange my grip as I shuffle into the darkened room. I blink a few times, encouraging my eyes to adjust to the significantly dimmer setting. 

Looking around, it's clear that this is definitely not a teenager's room; the bland colors and generic furniture lack character and there's absolutely no personal touch from Ryan. In fact, I don't think he's added anything to the décor since he arrived. I wouldn't object to painting the walls and adding a splash of color through the drapes - which I've notice have been let down, blocking out most of the external light. Ryan didn't always draw the curtains, and I just assumed that when he did, it was his subtle plea for privacy. I somehow don't think that he would ever ask to be left alone - it's almost as if he feels it isn't in his list of rights. 

Maybe if he picks out everything that comprises of this room, it would encourage him to express more of himself, even if it is just through posters or something equally representative of one's personal choice. Perhaps later on, I'll take another stab at conferencing with Ryan about the redecorating. 

I walk over to the edge of the bed, Ryan's body a mere lump under the disheveled sheets and covers. Lying flat on his stomach with his head tilting left, his position renders me unable to see his face. His shallow, rhythmic breathing would indicate that he is still caught deep in his sleep. 

I place my mug on the nightstand, lowering myself onto the bed and reaching forward with my free hand, gently squeezing his left shoulder. 

Immediately upon making contact, Ryan's entire body seizes, flipping around onto his back - his left arm forcefully knocking the steaming container of coffee from my hands, spilling its contents all over the bed and himself. He violently scrambles backwards until he's sitting upright, his back pressed hard against the barrier of the headboard behind him. The empty mug connects harshly with the wood floor, producing a hollow sound that echoes off the walls that surround us. His eyes are wide with fear, staring straight ahead - having yet to register on anything in particular. I realize that I am holding my hands up in front of me, as if claiming my innocence. His heavy breathing is evident by the rapid rise and fall of his chest. He blinks a couple times as if trying to focus on my form, the sheer panic in his eyes is slowly replaced by a look of extraordinary guilt. His mouth opens, but closes again, the lingering terror apparently preventing the words from coming to him. 

I find myself left equally speechless as I lower my hands from their defensive pose. 

"I'm so…," he starts, his voice shaky and unconfident.

"No, Ryan, I'm…"

"I didn't mean to… I'm sorry I made a mess. I don't know why…"

"Don't apologize. I shouldn't have snuck up on you. You should go…," I gesture to his t-shirt that is soaked through with the boiling coffee. 

He nods and stutters on his response, "Um… yeah. I'll just go change. Here let me…," he reaches for the sheets that are also soiled by the dark liquid, but I stop him.

"I'll take care of this, Ryan. You go clean up."

He pauses, avoiding my eyes. Dropping the handful of linens, he shuffles to the other side of the bed and begins to make his way to the bathroom. After I hear the soft click of the door being locked, I move to rip the sheets off the bed, balling them into my arms before rushing from the room - my mind spinning as I try to make sense of the events that just took place. 

***********************

I fumble with the lock on the door and immediately start tearing at my soaking wet t-shirt - letting the damp, stained garment slap onto the cold, ceramic floor. I lean my forearms on the ledge of the sink and dip my head. Allowing the structure to support the full weight of my upper body, I attempt to regulate my breathing and suppress the panic that has blood surging through my veins at a rapid pace. 

What the hell just happened there? I try to make sense of the whole ordeal, but my mind is still foggy and unfocused. My vague memory consists of the horrified look on Kirsten's face. She looked absolutely mortified. What have I done?

I lift my eyes from the bare sink, distracted by my reflection which shows angry red marks streaking across my chest - the coffee having left its mark. I reach for the faucet handles, turning the water on and absently splashing the cooling liquid over my face. Letting out a deep, shuddered exhalation, and I am relieved to realize that my chest is finally releasing its death grip on my heart.

A sharp pain vibrates through my skull, and I am reminded of the headache and nausea that are once again, making their presence known. I grimace, noting that I feel tremendously hungover, and reach for the bottle of Advil that is kept in the medicine cabinet above the sink. 

I really freaked her out. I could see it; she was scared of me. I knew it was only a matter of time before something like this happened - before I did something that they would find downright disturbing. I really feel like I've accomplished a lot this morning - I've managed to spill coffee all over the expensive linens on the bed that they've given me to sleep in, obtain multiple burns on my chest, and make Kirsten feel extremely awkward in her own home. It has been quite the morning already. 

Downing the pills with a handful of tap water, I turn and make my way out of the bathroom. I've got to make this better - or at least, fix what I've broken. I toss on a clean, dry t-shirt and slide my feet into my slippers. After taking another deep breath and grabbing the stray mug from the floor beside my bed, I make my way over to the house. It's time to face the music.

Kirsten abruptly stops shuffling through the scattered pages on the counter when I step through the door. 

"I'm sorry about the mess…," I start, placing the mug gently in the sink, but she interrupts my apology immediately.

"No, Ryan, that's no problem. I'm so sorry… I didn't mean to startle you like that."

I want to say it's okay, but nothing could be further from the truth. Instead, it has created this whole new level of discomfort to add to the already immense awkwardness that exists between us. Neither of us speak or move for torturously long seconds.

"You didn't have to stay home," I break the drawn out silence, but mentally chastise myself for sounding critical in my tone. This woman must want to run as far away from me as possible. I'm on a roll.

"I know," she replies quietly, pausing for a second before changing the subject, "You must be famished. Do you want some breakfast?"

"Actually, I'm not that hungry."

I look up in time to see her face fall into a discouraged frown. I pretend not to notice, immediately fixing my eyes on the granite counter. 

"How are you feeling today?"

I shrug, "Alright."

She doesn't press me any further on the matter. Shortly after, I hear her soft footsteps as she quietly leaves the kitchen, and it would appear as though I've managed to drive her out of a room in her own house too. I'm batting a thousand.

**************

I make my way to the laundry room to switch the sheets over from the washer to the dryer. As I fumble with the controls, I realize that I haven't got a clue how to use the new machinery. I suppose they aren't 'new', seeing as how they were purchased last year, but I've never encountered a situation that has required me to do an 'emergency' load on Rosa's day off. I can't help but laugh at myself; when did I become one of these people?

Once I've successfully activated the dryer, I sigh heavily, still trying to grasp exactly what went wrong this morning. Last night, he seemed so unguarded - definitely the most comfortable he has ever been in my presence. But this morning, he was absolutely terrified… I terrified him. It was like I electrocuted him with my touch. 

Wiping my damp hands on my jeans, I wander back towards the kitchen. I stop in the entrance, my eyes fixed on Ryan. His head is buried in his hands, and he simply looks young, weak and fragile - as he had the night before. 

Maybe I pushed this whole 'bridging the gap' thing too far, too fast. I know that it's going to take time, but I didn't think that something as simple and unobtrusive as my touch would alarm him to the extent that it did. He looks so lost, hurt, tired, sick and simply uncomfortable. I've pushed him further into his own protective shell, and made him feel extremely awkward in the place that he's supposed to call home - the place that's supposed to be his comfort zone. 

As I watch him stare hard at the counter, I yearn for that sensation of knowing - the confidence that sweeps through my body when I know, without a doubt, what I have to do to make it all better. I wait - and wait. 

Nothing. 

A shrill ring causes me to jump apprehensively.

I beeline to the phone, almost relieved to occupy my mind with the frivolous matters of work. I'll try to deal with Ryan again later. Maybe then I'll have conquered this parenting hangover.

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TBC. Thanks so much for reading. Any feedback would be appreciated.


	2. The Ocean

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A/N - Thank-you so much for all of your kind reviews. I'll try to uphold my end of the bargain. Here's Chapter 2, all from Ryan's POV. 

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Chapter 2

Ryan

-The Ocean-

I briefly listen to Kirsten engage in an instant argument when she answers the phone - the call obviously work related as she starts spouting off deadlines and contractual arrangements. 

I try to slide out undetected, not bothering to turn around to see if I had done so successfully. Once outside, I glance upwards, noting that the sky is uncharacteristically dark, creating an eerie atmosphere. That, along with the pressure that's causing my head to pound a little harder with its building force, would have me assume that rain is on its way. 

Wandering into the pool house, I push myself past the bed, which still looks inviting despite the bareness of the mattress. I've slept enough in the past twenty-four hours; I can't hide from my life in sleep any longer. A strong, cool breeze makes its way in from the door in which I had entered, causing a shiver to run through my entire body. I run my hands over my face and over the back of my neck, trying to rub away the achy feeling that's inhabiting my muscles. 

Wandering into the bathroom and shutting the door, I turn on the shower, stripping off my clothes as I wait for the water to reach the desired warmth. I step under the heavy stream of liquid, the scorching temperature is shocking at first as it adds to the burning sensation on my chest, but eventually, it soothes my cramping muscles into a more pliant state - easing the majority of the tension. I close my eyes and allow the water to cascade off my face. 

Has my blatant overreaction pushed Kirsten over the edge? I don't know how encouraged I'd feel if a kid that I had sacrificed for and given the perfect life, had reacted to my presence in such a way. She must think that I am the most ungrateful charity case. I wouldn't be surprised if this is the straw that breaks the camel's back. 

There's always the option of running. If I run, I have no one - and though that may sound like a bad thing, having no one to report to means that there is no one to disappoint. The thought of being nameless and untraceable is strangely appealing. That's sort of how it was in Chino. Though people knew who I was, no one was hurt or insulted if I did or said the wrong thing. I paid for it with a punch or some other form of physical punishment, and that I can handle. Once it's done, it's done. But here, it's often hard to draw the line between right and wrong. Nothing's black and white and there's this foggy boundary that separates good from evil. I can't figure it out, and I'm not sure I ever will.

They always claim they want me to talk - that they want to know what's going on in my head. No, they don't. They think they do, but they don't. They have to trust the fact that I need to keep my thoughts to myself. Knowing would only scare them, and the last thing I need to do is scare them more than I already have. 

So, the question is, do I wait for them to take care of this, or do I take matters into my own hands - make it easier for all involved? If only I could remember the countless times I have pondered the concept of taking off since I first arrived here, but no matter how right it seems at the time, and how hopeless the situation, I always end up staying. One of these days though, I'm going to wear out my welcome. I mean, surely the Cohens must abide by the timeless American tradition of 'three strikes - you're out'. I haven't been keeping count but I'm pretty sure that I've been striking out left, right and center. I'm almost positive that I've used all of my 'get out of jail free' cards - literally. There's only so much they are going to put up with, and I feel like after this morning, I'm nearing my end as a member of the Cohen family.

The water is losing its warmth, and I realize that I have been in shower for far too long. Stepping out, I halfheartedly dry off and wrap the towel around my waist. As I open the door, a piece of paper flutters through the air and lands by my feet. I reach down to pick it up, reading it silently:

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Ryan, 

Crisis at the office. I had to go in. 

Call me if you need anything at all. 

I should be back in a few hours. 

I'll call you before then to check up.

-Kirsten.

I toss the note on my bed as I begin to dress. I can't help but wonder if I've now managed to drive her out of her own house. The note should probably read, "Crisis at the Cohen household." 

I sit on the bed fully dressed; the silence that fills the room is deafening, causing my incessant thoughts to echo violently through my head. Closing my eyes, I try to force internal quietness with no success. 

There's nothing I want more than to just fit in with this wonderful family - to blend into the knit of their cloth - but as time goes on, I realize that that's somewhat of an unreasonable goal. My wishful thinking isn't going to make this happen. I could have hurt her today. It was just luck that I connected with the mug, but I realize that it could have easily gone down drastically differently. Just thinking about it makes me want to scream. I want to yell at the top of my lungs because I can't make the only good thing that's ever happened to me, make sense. If I can't make it work, and they can't make it work, it's never going to get any better. So do I just ride out these last couple years, praying they don't decide that my time is up, or do I just end it now before I completely pull them apart? 

After several minutes, it becomes clear that I just can't be alone with my mind right now. I slide on my shoes and walk outside, hoping to leave my haunting thoughts behind in the poolhouse. 

I stroll down the private path that leads to the beach; the sandy shore is empty with the exception of a few stray seagulls who are ravenously hunting for their dinner. I allow my body to crumple to the soft ground and stare at the dark sky - the clouds traveling rapidly as they hitch a ride with the galling wind. The only sound that can be determined is the soothing crash and fall of the large waves. I listen carefully to the pattern, letting it envelop my mind with comforting rhythm

There's something captivating about the endless stretch of ocean and sky as they combine to form brilliant sea of blue, but today, it's like I'm looking at the familiar scene through a clouded lens. A dark shade of grey represents the horizon with a depiction of depression. 

Keeping my eyes on the brewing storm in the distance, I rake my hands slowly through the soft sand, picking up handfuls and letting the tiny particles sift slowly through my fingers like I used to do as a child. Oddly, this particular connection to my childhood is somewhat comforting - not a claim I can often make. I used to fantasize about floating away, deep into the ocean. I realize that others are frightened by the idea of being lost at sea, but when I was growing up, I found it alluring. Like just coming here, so I could daydream about such ridiculous concepts, was an escape from the harsh reality of my life. 

I remember taking solace in knowing that in time, I wouldn't have to rely on the deep blue abyss for comfort - eventually, things would turn around and I would simply be happy like all the other children laughing and splashing in the rolling tide. I was young, I wasn't realistic. I believed my mother when she told me everything was going to be alright, good, different - she changed her words every time. But nothing ever changed, it only snowballed until her life - and ultimately, my life - spiraled out of control. She crashed her way through motherhood, and I just tried to steer clear of her destructive course. 

Though I try to forget and block out the majority of my younger years, there are certain things, certain lessons, that stay with you through life - lessons that are beaten in to make you who you are. Things like 'dreams are imagined, be realistic', and 'if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all'. Maybe I should run that one by Seth. 

I am often amused at how Seth can spend so much time talking about something that can be effectively covered in one sentence. He's so absorbed in such trivial, inconsequential issues, it makes me wonder if he even knows there are some very disturbing things out there. I can't be like Seth, he only sees what's good and doesn't see all the potential disasters that can result. It's like he's been protected from the reality of life's consequences - all these Newport kids have - but I don't hold it against them. Eventually though, they're going to say or do something that's going to be thrown back at them with such incredible force, it will destroy them. It makes me think that these parents aren't doing their kids any favors by protecting them from the real world. Then again, most of them will never even have to face the trials of the real world, inheriting Daddy - or Grandpa's - company. I wonder, if I had been born into this bubble, would I be equally naïve? I guess I'll never know. 

I've been shaped into who I am, and nothing's going to change that. No matter how many parties, galas and balls I attend, I will always be the kid from the outside - the kid who _knows_ about the outside. That's definitely something that Sandy and Kirsten will never understand. They continually try to make me - make our relationship - something it's not. I know what I know, and I have felt how hard life can come down on you. You have to be ready for the next inevitable disaster. I won't allow myself to be caught with my guard down. I have to be ready.

The sharp crack of thunder in the distance abbreviates my thoughts. I sigh, lowering myself backwards until all I can see is the blackened sky above me. The warmth radiating upwards from the sand is sharply contradicted by the cold breeze that is rolling in off the ocean at a furious pace, causing my body to shiver deeply. 

Wrapping my arms tightly around my chest and closing my eyes, I go back a few years and fantasize about the glory of drifting off into the ocean - having the waves take me deep out into the sea and allowing the cold water to numb my tired mind. 

TBC.


	3. The Rain

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A/N - Again, I thank you for your continuing support. It's immensely appreciated. Chapter 3 is expressed from both Ryan and Kirsten's POV's respectively. 

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Chapter 3

Ryan - Kirsten

-The Rain-

The sharp assail of cold rain pelting down on my face slaps me back to consciousness. I lie still for a moment, trying to familiarize myself with my surroundings. I can feel my entire body emitting trembling convulsions, trying desperately to retain any last shred of warmth. 

The rain continues to pour down, harder and harder, and with every new sheet of forceful precipitation, the cold seeps further into my skin - my body almost completely numb as a result. 

I shudder deeply, closing my eyes against the violent downpour. The waves are crashing harder now, and the sound is no longer soothing, but angry - the ocean rebelling against the calms of nature. The noise alone is enough to force me back to shelter; I can't be around such unbridled brutality right now. I struggle to my feet, the wet sand sticking earnestly to my drenched clothing. 

Walking against the unyielding force of the wind, I make the journey back to the Cohen home. 

I step inside the poolhouse, dripping profoundly from being caught in one of nature's eruptions. The first thing that catches my eye is the light - I hadn't turned on any lights before I left. I glance around quickly - nervously - to see a somewhat confused Seth Cohen, lying on my unmade bed, staring at me questioningly. 

Neither of us speak, the deep roar of thunder is the only sound that occupies our attention. 

After several indecisive seconds, Seth voices his curiosity, "Where were you, man? In the half an hour that I've been home, Mom's called like six times looking for you."

"What'd you say?" I ask, pushing my wet hair out of my eyes and making my way to the bathroom to grab a towel - his voice having effectively snapped my trance.

"I told her I didn't know where you were and that I'd call her when you showed up." 

I immediately notice Seth's use of the word 'when' as opposed to 'if'. He just assumes that I'm always coming back. I wish I could be that naïve and trusting. But seriously, he's been right so far; I've always come back. 

I lethargically rub the towel over my head while walking back into Seth's view.

"Seriously, where were you?" he asks again, this time with more urgency.

"At the beach," I state casually. There's no point lying, I haven't done anything wrong - at least I don't think I have. Sometimes it's hard to tell.

"In the rain?"

"It wasn't raining when I left," I reply honestly, my voice barely above a whisper. I can't help but feel like Seth sees through me. I can almost feel him tapping into my thoughts and it scares me. It really scares me that he might know what I'm thinking.

He pauses for a long moment, his eyes resting on the puddle that's forming beneath me. Looking up, he continues, "You okay, man?"

I shrug. I don't know why that's the best answer I can come up with at this particular moment in time, but it will have to do. His eyes lock into mine and I force myself to look away. I can often deter Sandy and Kirsten with some carefully crafted denial, but Seth doesn't seem to buy it as often. The only plus side is that he's a friend - a friend who tries not to piss me off and therefore, he doesn't usually push matters as persistently as his parents. 

"Alright, well, I'll call Mom and tell her you just stepped out for a bit, but you'll have to answer the bell as to why you weren't in bed all day," he moves to stand, rubbing his hands together, "And trust me, Ryan, speaking from experience, it's not a fun bell to answer. She's like Nurse Ratchet."

I nod while forcing a small smile, appreciative for the warning. Seth doesn't move for a few seconds, continuing to stare in my direction. Finally, after sorting through some thoughts that he had chosen not to verbalize, he makes his way to the door, pulling it open and poking his head outside, "Looks like you got the worst of it - seems to have slowed." With that, he bolts to the house - shielding his hair with his hands, paranoid about the negative effects of the water on his curly mop.

My teeth are chattering, the cold causing a shiver rip violently through my chest. Grabbing some clean, dry clothes, I make my way to the bathroom where I strip off my pants and shirt - tossing them heavily into the tub. My head and stomach are still screaming their discomfort, forcing me to acknowledge the cutting truth that nothing is right. 

I pull a heavy sweater over my dry t-shirt, praying for a reprieve from the gripping cold that has seized me. I can't let my body weaken any more - it's the only thing that I can count on the majority of the time and I absolutely despise the feeling of vulnerability that accompanies being sick - not to mention, the attention it provokes from others. 

I don't want the Cohens to worry about me, they don't need that. They have been more to me as a whole, than any other person has ever tried to be, but I have brought so much worry and concern into their lives as it stands. They've gone above and beyond and I need to stop pushing them for more. Eventually, they are going to grow tired of it - everyone always gets tired of me.

I slump onto my bed, the sheets and covers still missing. I should probably go get them and make it up. I don't want them to think that I assume it's going to be done for me. I can't be that person. 

I can't have them to think I rely on them. I have been so careful not to make too many connections. Connections tie you down and I need to be ready to leave at any given moment. I'm not gullible enough to believe that my place in this family is concrete - it's anything but. Today was evidence of how fragile my situation is. I saw the fear in her eyes - the hurt that I caused. How long can I keep doing this to these people? 

Though they have tried to talk me into believing such a ridiculous notion as just 'being one of them', I can't let them tie me down. If I ever needed to leave, fast - it would be quick and painless. It won't be as hard as it would have been if I had allowed myself to get comfortable. That would be ignorant and naïve - two things that I can't afford to be right now. You always have to be ready, because being comfortable means getting hurt. And honestly, I'm so sick of being hurt.

******************

"I'm actually pulling into the driveway right now, Seth. I'll talk to him, don't worry."

I flip the phone off as I maneuver the vehicle into my usual parking spot. Fumbling the large bags containing the plentiful amounts of Chinese delicacies, I rush to the front door, trying to avoid the spitting rain. 

The door swings open as I approach, Seth waving me in as he steps back.

"You could help me here, you know."

He smiles, "But you seem to have everything under control. I don't want to interrupt your superb rhythm."

I roll my eyes in his direction, a gesture that only makes his smile broaden.

Seth follows me into the kitchen, sniffing out the food as I place the heavy bags on the counter.

"Where's Ryan?" I ask, reaching into the cupboard to retrieve the plates that will host the feast.

"Here."

I spin to the direction of the voice, nearly dropping the stack of plates in the process. 

"Oh…," is all I can manage to say. 

He closes the door behind him and shifts nervously from foot to foot, his eyes looking up and down - anywhere but in my direction. 

Seth's eyes are darting from myself to Ryan and back again, his eyebrows raised as he silently questions the obvious awkwardness that exists between us.

"Uh, how are you feeling… Ryan?" 

"I'm…," his voice fails him and he pauses to clear his throat, more sure the second time around, "Better."

"Well, if he wasn't sick before, he will be after his adventure in the pouring rain," Seth states matter of factly, smiling mischievously as he divulges the information.

If looks could kill, I'm sure Seth would be on the floor right now. Ryan's eyes all but shooting daggers at my son - I assume he doesn't know that I've already been filled in with regards to his afternoon escapades. Seth's smiles diminishes slightly, but he still looks mildly amused. 

"What were you doing out in the rain?" I ask Ryan directly, my motherly instincts demanding the answer to the question.

"I went to the beach. It started to rain. I came back."

It seemed simple enough.

"You should have been in bed, Ryan." Yep, my motherly instincts are definitely in control of this one.

Seth smiles smugly at Ryan, with a look that can only be interpreted as 'I told you so'. I choose to ignore the gesture, but am slightly curious at to what horror stories Seth's been telling him. 

"Hey."

I turn to see Sandy enter the kitchen, briefcase in hand. He strolls right up to me, placing a kiss on my lips as he passes by - much to Seth's dismay. He asks Ryan how he's feeling, which he responds to systematically, "Better."

The boys engage in mindless conversation that revolves around sarcasm and intermittent insults; Ryan smiles and chuckles lightly at their banter, but doesn't join in. I busy myself with the highly-domestic task of transporting the cardboard containers of food to the kitchen table. 

The mood is light. Seth entertains us with exaggerated tales of his day, I correct him when he gets too detailed in matters that aren't appropriate dinner-time-conversation, Sandy adds his two cents to every comment, and Ryan pushes his food around - cautiously eating tiny portions off his plate.

I make eye contact with Sandy to see if he's noticed Ryan's lethargic eating habits, but he returns with a blank stare, apparently oblivious. 

A lull in the conversation presents itself as both Seth and Sandy are refilling their mouths, and I take the opportunity to jump in, "Seth, did you pick up Ryan's homework for him?" 

He nods, trying earnestly to swallow what's in his mouth so he can comment on the situation, "Oh yeah," he starts, swallowing again, "And I gotta say, Ryan, I give you credit for having the courage to face that hideous beast of a calculus teacher, day in and day out."

"Seth!" I scoff, trying not to laugh at just how true that analogy is.

But Ryan smiles, nodding his agreement. The smiles are contagious, and I allow myself to join in, the soft chuckle of Sandy's unsuccessfully suppressed laughter fills the air. If there's one thing I can always count on to keep this family close, it will be our dinners. Though I may never be the one who prepares a traditional meal, and we may wander into 'inappropriate territory' several times in each sitting, it keeps us humble, informed and close. 

Seth starts into another borderline story, but I decide not to flag this one down. I sit back and smile, simply enjoying the time with my family.

***

Sandy helps me dispose of the empty containers as Ryan finishes wiping the table clean. Seth bounds down the stairs with Ryan's homework in hand, which he accepts reluctantly before thanking me for dinner and leaving to his sanctuary. 

Seth grabs the phone and starts dialing, what I can only assume is Summer's number, while making his way up the stairs to his bedroom. 

"How was your day?" Sandy asks, wrapping his arms around my waist and swaying from side to side.

"Long," I moan, "My father's off his rocker."

"Tell me something I don't know," he teases, softly rubbing his nose against my neck. I pull away, tickled by the gesture.

"I want you to go talk to Ryan."

Sandy's face pulls back in confusion, "About what?"

I debate whether or not to tell him about the incident this morning - about how I managed to nearly make him jump out of his skin - but instead, I decide to stick to the basics for the time being.

"I had to go into the office around noon, and I called several times to check up on him, but there was no answer. Seth called me and said that Ryan came home, soaking wet from being out in the rain."

"So," he answers, unfathomed by the story that has me visibly shaken, "He probably just got caught in the rain."

"He's sick, Sandy. He shouldn't have been 'out' in the first place."

Sandy sighs while wrapping his arms around me again, "He seems better than yesterday, honey. I think you're reading way too much into this."

"Just talk to him, please," I plead, praying that my husband will have more success getting through to him than I have.

"Alright," he gently kisses my neck again, "I'll talk to him. But not before I change out of this suit."

TBC. 

__

Thanks so much for taking the time to let me know what you think.


	4. The Air

A/N - Sorry for the wait, it's been a crazy week and to top it off, I've been computer-less. Anyway, this is part four of five, all from Ryan's POV. I realize after watching last night's episode, that this has veered further into AU than originally intended, but I'm not going to stray from my initial goals. 

Thanks so much for all the wonderful reviews and enjoy chapter four.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Chapter 4

Ryan

-The Air-

I start towards the poolhouse, my eyes on the stack of homework in my hands with which Seth had so graciously loaded me down. I take a second to deeply inhale the fresh scent that immediately ensues a heavy rainfall. The cool, salty air is still traveling rapidly, delivering several different aromas that range from flowers to grass to food - as someone nearby is busy grilling their meal. As the last smell registers, I find myself fighting the nausea that represents my body's rebellion against the small amounts of my meal that I had forced down during dinner. Every swallowing attempt was an all encompassing effort, the food having a hard time squeaking through the picket line of my stomach's strike. Despite the sickening feeling that resulted from forcing the unwanted food into my system, it was more appealing than dealing with the alternative - the Cohens.

The steadily increasing nausea encourages me to get away from 'all things food' and I rush the remaining steps to the poolhouse, unceremoniously tossing the stack of assignments on my still unmade bed. I stand in my place for a moment, pleading with my stomach to calm but after several iffy seconds, I decided to abide on the safe side and journey to the bathroom. Leaning back against the wall directly opposite the toilet, I feel my face flush. Swallowing dryly, I do everything within my remaining internal power to ease the clutching pain. 

Suddenly, a blast of cold air propels directly into my face, the coolness welcomed against my flushed skin. I look up to observe that I'm directly under the air conditioning vent, and I actually find myself pondering if engineers strategically planned the duct system so that a vent would be present in such a convenient location. The ridiculousness of my own thoughts leads me to question whether or not this fever is causing me to lose my mind.

I've got to stop this. The Cohens don't need this - they don't need to find me here trying to keep down my dinner. As if my worst fears were being played out simultaneously with my thoughts, I hear a staccato of knocks on the glass panes of the poolhouse doors. 

Shit, shit, shit. 

I jump up hurriedly, steadying myself on the sink for a brief second, waiting for the dizziness to desist. A soft creak signifies that the door is being opened - the visitor letting him or herself in. 

Please be Seth, please be Seth. 

I glance in the mirror quickly before making my entrance - my face is noticeably flushed and I make a mental note to avoid settling near a light. Maybe they won't notice. 

My stomach growls and I realize that this could get really messy. It's a risk I've got to take. I pull the door open and step out into the larger room, scanning for my visitor, expecting to be greeted by the face of a concerned Cohen. Instead, the sight causes me to stop dead in my tracks.

"Hi…," she smiles apprehensively, cautiously inching closer as she stuffs her hands in her pockets.

I don't respond. Really, dealing with Marissa is not at the top of my to-do list today. There are more significant matters that are occupying my attention.

She looks around the room once she realizes that I have no intention of returning her greeting, "I wanted to talk and you weren't at school, so I thought maybe…"

"This," I start, interrupting her spiel, rubbing a hand over the back of my neck while attempting to swallow the continually building nausea, "This is _not_ a good time, Marissa." 

I just can't bring myself to endure having to listen to her sob story right now.

"Yeah well, it's never a good time, is it?" she sounds slightly ashamed and nervously tucks her hair behind her ear before she continues - a little more confident this time, "You can't keep pushing me away forever, Ryan. So do me a favor and please explain what the hell's going on between us. You at least owe me that much."

I open my mouth with every intention of yelling something spiteful and malicious, but stop myself. It feels like everything is coming down at once, and I'm finding it hard to breathe from under the piles of emotions with which I've been buried. Hot tears of frustration start burning at the back of my eyes, the stinging liquid blurring my vision for a brief second - Marissa's form distorted in the haze. It's not her - she's just a small piece of the puzzle, it's just sometimes it feels like everything's crashing - fast. She's just rubbing salt in the gaping wound. But how do I explain that it's not anything, but rather everything. It's not just Marissa's stifling neediness, it's not just what happened this morning, it's the whole picture - my entire life. 

I blink several times in rapid succession. I won't cry - not for her, and definitely not in front of her. I won't give her - or anyone else that's hurt me - the satisfaction. I force my face into the steel exterior that's always protected me when things got to be too much. A familiar numbness floods my body.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to… I was just hoping that we could…," she stumbles through her speech after catching the flash of emotion I've exhibited. 

Maybe if I ignore her, she'll go away. An unnerving silence persists. 

Marissa moves towards me suddenly, but stops herself. She spins around, as if she's leaving, but then turns back towards me, her face red with a mixture of hurt and frustration. An explosion is immanent 

She takes deep breath before furiously voicing her anger with wavering emotion, "I know I hurt you, and I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry that I betrayed you, and I'm sorry that I didn't listen to you, and I'm sorry that I said those hurtful things to you, but you know what? You're doing the exact same thing to me now."

She absently swipes at her tears, not removing her gaze from me for a second.

"Just leave," my voice is firm but low, emphasizing that I could not be more serious. I just can't deal with this crap tonight.

"What?" she looks surprised, like she's played her last card and can't believe that I'm not playing right into her self-constructed pity party, "Why are you doing this to me?" 

I lift my eyes from the floor to meet her's, my jaw clenched in fury as anger pulses through my veins. I don't yell, but find that the slow, firm delivery of my words is more effective in this particular circumstance, "It's not _always_ about _you_, Marissa."

I must have struck a chord because immediately following my bitter, verbal assault, a sob pierces the still air. Her face deepens in its shade of red and she spins, this time continuing in her exit, slamming the glass door behind her. 

I stare vacantly at the drapes that are swaying dramatically from the force of the slam. Guilt swamps my senses, and even though I meant exactly what I said, I know that she's not built for this - she's too weak and sheltered to be an outlet for my personal issues. She's been protected. 

I sigh once more, mentally adding another notch to my belt of people I've managed to hurt today. 

I turn back to the direction from which I had come, this time sure that the nausea cannot be effectively suppressed. Immediately upon reaching my destination, my stomach revolts and I rest my arm across the top of the seat so that I have a place to rest my forehead during the brutal expulsion. 

I don't move right away when the heaving stops, but instead, savor the soothing coldness of the forced air that's pouring down onto the hot skin on the back of my neck. It's just been one of those days.

Finally, when my stomach settles back into its normal position, I push away from the cool porcelain - leaning back against the wall. Tilting my head back, I close my eyes and allow the rush of air to pass over my dampened face. I don't think I have ever been so grateful for air conditioning. This is one luxury that I don't think I could ever live without again. I don't need the fancy clothes or the Egyptian-born linens or the cutting edge technology, but I will definitely be requiring air conditioning. 

Marissa's hurt expression flashes through my head, and I groan while thinking about the countless hours of therapy that she will need to undergo to fix what I've done. I suppose she can't help it - she said it herself, she's used to getting what she wants. Unfortunately, she wants something that I can't be - but how do I tell her that? She wants a boyfriend - a steady, long-term boyfriend. But I can't stop thinking about running. If I run, and she expects me to be here for her, she'll be devastated. If I slowly wean her off me now, it won't effect her as much if - or when - I do decide to break and leave this life behind. Even if I stay here, I'm only going to end up hurting her because that's how it works with people like myself. All around, she's better off keeping her distance. 

I can't say that this is what I want. I don't want to be alone - to be the one to throw away a potentially engaging relationship with a gorgeous girl that I've had my eyes on since the day we met. I push her away because she's too close. She too close to tying me down. 

However, I can't deny that I'm drawn to her. She's far from perfect, but is sort of like a retrospective association to my old life. She drinks, steals and doesn't trust me at all, and though these aren't good qualities by any means, they are familiar. Rightly or wrongly, I find myself drawn to the things that I am most familiar with, yet want nothing to do with. It makes no sense. My life makes no sense. Sometimes I don't know why I bother. 

I internally curse when the air conditioning switches off - the thermostat having obviously reached its desired temperature. I know I should get up, but I'm so incredibly tired and the walk to my bed would seem too far to attempt. I mentally curse again when I remember that there are still no sheets on the mattress. The walk to the bed may seem strenuous, but the walk to the laundry room in the house would appear impossible. 

Maybe I'll just sit here and wait for the room to warm up enough to trigger the a/c again. 

***********

"Ryan, are you in there?"

The noise causes me to jump, and I blink into focus to realize that I'm still sitting on the bathroom floor. I rub my hands over my arms - they're freezing cold, most likely from the cold air that's been forcing down on me for God knows how long. 

"Uh, yeah, coming," my voice cracks halfway through my reply. I have no idea how I'm going to talk my way through this one. 

I use the toilet as a crutch while rising to my feet; my stomach is more placid after its tirade, but still significantly uneasy. I take a deep breath before walking out of the bathroom.

Sandy's sitting in one of the scattered chairs adjacent to my bed - the bed which, I also note, has been made-up. I wince at the idea that someone's been in here long enough to make the bed while I was dozing under a vent in the bathroom. I wish he hadn't done that - assuming it was him. I hate it when they do those sort of things for me. I think it's clear they've done more than enough.

"Everything okay?" Sandy asks while leaning forward towards me in his seat. 

"Yeah, it's fine. I'm fine." I don't even believe myself, and that's not usually a good sign. To my relief and shock, Sandy doesn't push me too much. I know that he knows I'm far from fine, and maybe just between the two of us, that's enough. He doesn't always press me to verbally verify the things he already knows. 

"Alright, that's fine," he waves his hands in defeat, "But can you at least tell me where you were today?"

I'm confused. He must already know this. The new line of questioning throws me and I'm suddenly extremely uncomfortable. 

"I was here, at the beach, then back here," I feel like I'm giving my testimony.

He nods, "In the rain." 

I can't really tell whether or not that was a statement or a question. I nervously swallow, "It wasn't raining when I left."

He nods once more, then leans even further forward in his chair as if to make a point with his next statement, "Did we do something to upset you, Ryan?"

I meet his gaze, fear sweeping through my chest. 

"What? No," I shake my head a few times, blinking rapidly as I try to comprehend where he's going with this.

"Because you know that you could always tell us if we did."

I nod, not quite sure why I'm nodding, but he said I should know this so I'm just going to go along with it. 

"Did Seth do something?"

"No," I burst out, a little louder this time, "No, Sandy… No…" My head continues to shake long after I finish talking, as if to emphasize just how wrong he was. Seth hasn't done anything. Where is this coming from?

"Is it the whole Marissa thing? I know you two have been having some problems lately…"

"Marissa? What? Is 'what' the whole Marissa thing?"

He must sense how very confused I am because he holds his hands up in defense. 

What if Kirsten's told him about what happened this morning and now he's trying to 'fix' me? It's not 'fixable'. I can't change who I am. No matter how hard I try sometimes, I just can't change who I am.

"So there's nothing you want to tell me?"

Again, the fear of being discovered builds inside my chest. I hate it when they get this close. 

I just shake my head again, hoping that he'll accept that as an answer.

"Well, I'm afraid that's just not good enough. Give me _something_ to bring back to the wife," he laughs lightly at the end to show that he was joking, but I just don't see the humor in his statement. Kirsten sent him out here. She sent him out to find out what's wrong with me. I can't tell them what I don't know. If I knew, would I be like I am?

"Look, I'm not mad at anyone, and I'm really sorry if I gave you guys that impression…," I swallow again, my voice wavering with nervousness as my heart pounds furiously in my chest. Sandy doesn't give me the chance to apologize any further. 

"You just haven't said a thing to… anyone, really, in the past few days, and I understand if you're not feeling well, but that's all you have to say. I promise that I won't let Kirsten overpower you with her often misguided, motherly fussing."

The last sentence hits a little too close to home, and my heart catches in my throat. Would he have made that joke if he knew what had happened between us this morning? Would he really have been that bold, and… insensitive? It just doesn't seem like Sandy. I don't think she's told him. 

He wants answers that I can't provide him with. How do I tell him it's nothing - that everything's fine - when it's absolutely everything that's wrong? It's everything I've done since I came here, and it's everything I'm going to continue to do…

"Ryan, are you okay?"

I turn back to meet him, skeptically looking him over for any hint of answers to the questions I would never think of asking. 

"Sorry, I just…"

He stands up, patting my leg, "It's okay. Get some rest and try to sleep it off. It's probably just a persistent bug."

He walks to the door, turning back to face me before he leaves, "And Ryan," I meet his eyes hesitantly. "No gallivanting in the rain."

He gently shuts the door behind him. 

I lie back on the bed and stare hard at the ceiling - my chest and stomach aching from the tension, but taking a back seat to the thoughts that are racing through my tired mind. When did this all get so complicated? Despite everything that was so wrong with my life, things were definitely simpler in Chino. It's just too easy to set these people off. If Sandy was that concerned about a 'bug', what's he going to do if he finds something so much bigger - so much scarier? They already know too much. They're going to panic, it's inevitable. 

Despite the fury of activity in my head, my eyelids grow heavy and I find myself fighting to remain conscious. I try desperately to surmount my own exhaustion - I don't want to be unaware right now. I want to be ready… just incase. 

This has gotten way out of hand. I'm out of control, and that scares me out of my mind.

TBC.


	5. The Storm

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Chapter 5

Kirsten - Ryan - Sandy

-The Storm-

I watch Sandy take his watch off as he prepares to slide into bed. Once settled under the covers, he glances over in my direction. "You coming?"

I turn my head to look outside again. The wind is picking up, causing sporadic sheets of rain to whip heavily against the glass window. I let my eyes settle on the poolhouse; the lights are off and the darkness kindles worry in my heart. At least when the lights are on, I know he's there.

"Sandy?" I ask, not removing my eyes from the unlit scene of our backyard.

"Hmm?" he replies.

"Do you ever think he'll run?"

"Ryan?" he asks, his voice high with surprise.

Nodding, I turn to face him.

"No, I mean…no." He pauses while collecting his thoughts. "Do you?"

"I've wondered about it," I admit while shrugging, hoping that Sandy will somehow convince me that such worrying is senseless and pointless, backing his statements up with cold, hard, undeniably facts.

Instead, he seems to be considering the horrifying idea himself. "You don't think he's happy?"

"Do you?" I immediately throw back at him.

Silence subsists for several seconds, both of us tossing around the sickening idea of losing a member of our family.

"We can't just expect him to embrace us as parents so quickly. He's not a five year old child that we can influence and mold. He is the way he is for reasons that are beyond our comprehension. He just needs more time to sort things out. It's just going to take time, honey."

I look at him warily - not totally convinced.

"He's just had a rough week. He'll come around," he adds while nodding at me reassuringly.

Looking outside one last time, I sigh heavily as my heart aches at the mere thought of Ryan even contemplating leaving us behind. These past couple months have strained our relationship to the point where I'm not sure how to define it any more. He's separated and guarded - even more so than before. I'm terrified of losing him, of pushing him away.

I leave my seat by the window to join my husband in bed and lie back against the overstuffed pillows. I close my eyes and let the sounds of scattered rain drown out my worried thoughts.

---------------------

I wake with a start, the doors of the poolhouse rattling violently in heavy gusts of wind. The dark room is vibrantly lit by a shuddering bolt of lightning which is shortly followed by the deep growl of thunder. I push myself down further under the insulating duvet - my body deeply chilled and my muscles rigid. Rain continues to slap down violently in intermittent patterns that vary in intensity.

The jerky, inconsistent sounds of the falling precipitation make it impossible for me to find my way back into the quietness of sleep, and I sigh while pushing the covers off my body and wandering unsteadily to the bathroom. The brightness of the light proves paralyzing, and I squint against the invasive radiance while reaching blindly for the sink and turning on the faucet - cupping a few handfuls of water into my dry mouth. Immediately afterwards, I turn off the light, relieving the burning sensation behind my eyes.

The water dances angrily in my stomach and I shake my head in defeat. I'm damned if I do and I'm damned if I don't.

Another brilliant streak of lightning temporarily illuminates the poolhouse - brighter this time, as the electricity seems to be getting closer with every new strike. The loud crack and rumble of the ensuing thunder causes the glass doors to rattle in its wake. An eerie calm follows the outburst, and my back tightens in anticipation of the next shattering blow from nature.

I reach under the bed, grasping until I come into contact with the familiar, rough fabric. Pulling out the faded bag, I reach into the side pocket, emerging with the 'emergency pack' of cigarettes that I keep handy for situations such as these.

I carefully roll one of the white cylinders from its package, looking it over as I contemplate whether or not the benefits will be worth the consequences. Another sharp crack of thunder vibrates through my skull, and it's no longer a question of whether or not I can go without - I definitely need this small bandage of comfort right now.

I hastily grab my coat, draping it over shoulders. A blue and orange flame ignites on the first flick of the lighter, into which I immerse the end of my cigarette. To avoid setting off the smoke detector, I immediately step outside upon effectively lighting the smoke - the wind and rain shocking me briefly with their unrelenting intensity.

I walk over to the edge of the deck surrounding the pool, overlooking the ferocious ocean - the waves crashing violently amongst each other in congruence with the galling wind. Turning my back to the wind to protect the glowing embers from the rain, I lift the treasured object to my lips, inhaling deeply and holding the smoke in my chest until I feel that familiar burn of satisfaction. Slowly, I exhale, my lungs shuddering in relief as I do so. I lean my right shoulder against the wall of the poolhouse and enjoy the warm comfort associated with the nasty habit. My body relaxes into a mildly drug-induced state.

My eyes scan the range of my vision. Even in such a dangerously threatening storm, the enchanted beauty and elegance of this secluded universe is captivating. It makes me wonder why I find it so stressful to live here. It's gorgeous and I have everything I never even dared to dream of, but under the surface lies a veiled danger. It would be so easy for someone like myself to get burned. I'm like a virus that the body of Newport is trying to destroy. I'm constantly under the subtle attack of the world that I don't belong in - struggling to survive.

I close my eyes and take another long draw off the smoldering cigarette. My body is trembling against the icy wetness of the rain that's drenched through my jacket and is now consistently dripping from the hair that's clinging to my forehead.

Another large bolt of lightning streaks the sky in the distance, and I brace myself against the wall and wait. Even with such constructed preparation, the thunder still succeeds in making me jump with its deafening explosion. I take another drag, quicker this time, just trying to ease the tension-riddled dread induced by the storm.

As much as I find the unbridled fury of the weather disturbing, I can't bring myself to abandon the cigarette and retreat to safety. It's always the same battle, time after time. Even with all the terrifying fears that accompany this new life of mine, I can't seem leave all the good things behind.

The lighting strikes again - closer. Too close. I'm a target, but I won't seek refuge. The sensible move would be to leave, but I can't run away.

I raise the cigarette one last time, my fingers shaking from the frigid current that's swept through my entire body.

As the sky lights up once more, I savor the final drag.

---------------------

"What are you doing, Sandy?"

I turn to face Kirsten's voice which has pulled me from my thoughts. "Storm woke me up," I reply quietly, turning back to the large, rain-stained window in front of me.

After seconds of contemplative silence, I state, "Yes."

"What?" she asks, clearly confused by the randomness of my comment.

"Yes, I think he thinks about running." I don't move, continuing to stare solemnly out the window. I hear the sheets rustle as she begins to make her way toward me, my words obviously concerning her considerably.

"I asked him not to go gallivanting in the rain," I mumble, my eyes fixed on the scene that's playing out in front of me.

Kirsten turns away from me, following my gaze and letting her eyes fall on the saddening sight.

Ryan stands outside, being pelted by the unforgiving combination of rain and wind. He has his back to us, but I can tell he's smoking by the sporadic clouds that are rising above him only to be quickly swept away in the breeze. It's not right. What could be so bad that a sickly, teenage boy would feel compelled to endure a raging storm in the middle of the night for the small, comforting pleasure of a cigarette? Kirsten saw it; she knew that something was wrong. That's why she sent me out to talk to him. There's more to this than meets the eye, and it terrifies me that I missed it. He was silently screaming for help and I failed him when he obviously needed me most.

Kirsten's warm touch graces my forearm, her hand squeezing with a trace of encouragement. She continues to stare outside, allowing the anomalous intensity of the moment to sink in. "We'll get through to him eventually," she whispers. "We won't let him go."

My heart aches as she lends her emotional support.

"I know," I whisper back, placing my hand on top of hers. "I just hope we haven't already lost him."

I continue to watch as Ryan is drenched by the pouring rain. Puffs of smoke appear and disappear, and finally after several minutes of nothing, he turns to go back into the poolhouse. Kirsten watches him disappear into the warm confines of his room, then kisses me on the forehead before climbing back into bed, all while anxiously shaking her head mumbling something about talking about this in more detail first thing in the morning.

I, however, can't bring myself to pull my eyes away from the dimly lit poolhouse. I know it's ridiculous to think that I can watch him every single second, making sure he doesn't bolt, but tonight, I need that small consolation of knowing. At least I know where he is physically. Mentally, I'm out of my element.

He keeps a light on, as if he has no intention of sleeping again on this blustering night. I watch silently, waiting for what? I have no idea. My emotions range from sorrow, to fear, to being mildly angry. I'm not mad at him directly, I'm mad that he feels he can't talk to me. I'm mad that he feels he has to hide from me. I'm mad that I couldn't see it.

I stare for what must have been at least an hour, but nothing changes. My thoughts are as disorganized and confused as they have ever been. Looking over at the clock, I let out an exaggerated sigh when I realize it's four in the morning. Kirsten's been sleeping restlessly for a while now, the sheets and covers tangled from her vigorous tossing and turning.

The rain has slowed, the storm passing over and leaving behind a spitting epilogue to its vibrant main act.

I rise from my seat by the large bay window in search of my slippers and housecoat. If he's not sleeping, and I'm not sleeping, we might as well be miserable, scared and confused together. He shouldn't have to be alone - I owe him that much.

I make my way down the stairs and through the kitchen, looking up through the glass to determine whether or not I should utilize an umbrella for the short jaunt to the poolhouse. The sky is significantly clearer, and I should be able to dash from one roof to the other without a protective shield.

I jog across the path and fling the door open immediately, shaking my head in an attempt to lose any stray raindrops that have settled on my hair. I scan the room to find Ryan lying on the bed, his upper body propped upright by several pillows. He's watching me through heavy, half-closed eyelids, his hair messily arranged and untamed after being caught in the wind and rain. He doesn't appear surprised by my presence, or at all concerned, he just looks horribly tired and worn.

I shake off my wet slippers, smiling slightly in his direction as I walk slowly toward the bed. He follows me with his eyes but doesn't move an inch as I sit near the edge. From my new position, I can see how deathly pale his skin is - it worries me, but I don't move. I don't want to crowd him…yet.

"So," I start, my voice very low, but easily determined through the silence, "do you want to tell me what's going on?"

He blinks slowly, heavily - exhausted.

"Ryan?" I prompt him.

"Why do you care?" he whispers so quietly, that I have tilt me head to make sure I can hear him, "Why do you care?" he states again, even quieter this time.

"Because like it or not, that's what parents do…." I stop myself, rephrasing and repeating, "That's what parents _should_ do."

Again, he blinks, holding his eyes shut for longer this time while shakily attempting to breathe in deeply. He doesn't respond. I need to be careful. This is delicate - he's delicate.

"Ryan, we're a family," I say soothingly, "and we will do anything within our power to help you, but you've got to let us. We can't do this alone. No one should have to do this alone."

He responds by closing his eyes again, but this time, he doesn't open them. He doesn't move at all and I watch him carefully, waiting for him to respond in some way. Tears escape from under his eyelids, streaking down his face rapidly. He still doesn't move. I can't push him. I will wait for him.

"You're going to get hurt," he whispers, his eyes still shut as another round of tears stream down his pale cheeks.

"Well that's inevitable. Everyone gets hurt. We all hurt, Ryan," I can feel myself slowly losing grip on my own emotions. I need to be strong for him. I will deal with myself later - right now, it's about him.

"You don't need this," his whisper catches in his throat and I forcefully blink back my own tears.

"Need what?" I ask gently.

"The hurt."

I swallow. "That's for us to decide."

His eyes remain closed as round after round of fresh tears are released. He doesn't sob, he doesn't cry, he just sits there in agony, fighting his internal demons.

"I can't do it…."

"We want to help you, Ryan. We want to help this family, and I'm not saying it's going to be easy, but being a family never is. If it means we get hurt, so be it. You have to trust us when we say that you and Seth are the most important things in the world to us. We're not going to let you go without a fight." I pause, regaining my composure. "Look at me, Ryan."

He reluctantly complies, revealing the extraordinary despair in his blood-shot, teary blue eyes.

"We will fight for you, Ryan. We will fight for you just like we'd fight for Seth, _that's_ how much you mean to us."

His chest jolts and he pulls his knees up as he leans forward, the tears flowing freely but he doesn't make a sound.

My eyes sting in an empathetic sentiment as I watch him lose the battle against his emotions. His body shakes slightly as if he's cold or scared. The only sound in the room is Ryan's slight sniffing. I know he didn't want to hear what I told him. He would like me to tell him that I don't care. Instead, I've created an emotional attachment that he tries so incredibly hard to avoid everyday of his life because, as he puts it, it's so easy to get hurt.

I wrap my arm around his back and gently squeeze his right shoulder. If it were up to me, my kids would never cry, they would never be scared or sick, but because I cannot prevent all those inescapable events of life, all I can do is try to ease their pain and help them through the rough times. And though I can't say that I truly understand why he's so upset - why he's been so detached recently - he needs to know that I'm going to be here through the good and the bad, it's a parenting vow that I would never abandon. I would never abandon my child.

I feel him shivering beneath my touch and I remove my hand from his shoulder, slowly reaching around and placing it on his buried forehead. His skin is burning and the heat immediately radiates through my fingers

"It would appear as though all that playing in the rain has done nothing for your fever," I say quietly, removing my hand from his hot forehead and placing it back on his shoulder, pulling him closer to me and squeezing encouragingly. "Lie down and I'll go get you some Tylenol."

He gradually leans back against his pillowed prop, his eyes closed again as he shudders deeply as an aftereffect of his emotionally draining experience.

I stand, sliding my feet back into my slippers and reaching for the door handle. Before leaving, I turn back toward him, his face a mixture of pain and relief.

"You better believe it, kid," I mumble under my breath, "we're not letting you go without a fight."

Immediately upon stepping back into the shadowy kitchen, a moving figure catches my attention. I watch as Seth sleepily stumbles in while rubbing his eyes lethargically.

"Dad," he half groans, half whispers, "what's going on?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," I start, but Seth squints and shakes his head.

"No, you didn't, the storm did, but I heard you get up." Seth's voice is more clear as he seems to be digesting the situation more accurately now. "What were you doing outside?" he asks, peering around me as he tries to piece the fragments together in his hazy mind.

"I just --"

"Is Ryan up?" he asks, interrupting before I can finish, seemingly more confused than before as he notices the lights in the poolhouse.

I open my mouth to respond, but stop abruptly when Kirsten wanders into the kitchen. Her face transforms from sleepy to extremely concerned in a matter of seconds when she sees Seth and I conversing at such an early hour.

"Is everything all right? What's going on?" Her eyes dart between Seth and myself, and then out to the poolhouse, only to settle on me again.

"Yes, it's fine." I correct myself, "Everything's fine."

"Is Ryan up?" Seth repeats, making his way toward the door from which I had just entered before this whole confusing mess distracted me from my initial goal.

"Yes, but Seth," I start when my son reaches for the door handle upon my confirmation, "I don't think Ryan's up for company right now."

He stops, glancing at me, confused. Kirsten's eyes flutter with panic as she tries to silently search for answers.

"Is he all right?" Seth asks, more worry occupying his features as he glares at me questioningly.

Kirsten's hand brushes my arm and I shift to meet her similar gaze.

"Yeah. Yeah," I shrug casually. "He'll be fine. He's just not feeling well, that's all."

I move to retain the Tylenol from the cupboard but my audience is eerily still. When I finally have acquired the desired tablets, I am met by the same, concerned expressions.

"Guys, it's all right. Really."

They both seem to relax slightly at my insistence and I take the opportunity to quickly grab a bottle of water from the fridge and maneuver toward the door. Two sets of eyes watch me diligently, and once my back is completely turned, a smile breaks out on my face.

Just by observing Seth's facial expression when he thought that something might really be wrong with Ryan, showed me just how much he cares about him. It showed that in his own way, Seth had adopted Ryan as his brother. Kirsten's sudden flash of panic and protectiveness could only be expressed in a mother's concern for her child - or someone she considers her child - and it's clear that that's how she feels about Ryan.

In the past six months, Kirsten and I have gained another son, Seth's gained a brother, and Ryan has gained a family that cares about him like a family should. He's just going to have to learn how to accept that.

I quietly step back into the poolhouse. Ryan's exhausted form is exactly how I left him - his arms wrapped tightly around his chest but his eyes relaxed and closed. The track marks from the unwanted tears have been erased since I last saw him, but the slight, shuddering rise and fall of his chest would signify that he's still battling for control.

I lower myself onto the bed beside the distraught teenager, his body moves slightly from the shifting mattress but is otherwise completely still.

"There are a couple people in the kitchen who are concerned about you," I begin, internally knowing that Ryan needs to know about how much this family cares for him - even if right now, it bothers him deeply.

He cracks his eyes open slightly, unshed tears still glistening across the surface of his pain-filled eyes. "They're up too?" he whispers unsteadily.

I nod, and take the opportunity to hand him the pills and water. His hands shake slightly as he accepts them and weakly deposits the white tablets into his mouth - chasing them with the water.

"They care about you, Ryan," I finish my thought from earlier. "We all care about you very much."

He just closes his eyes and attempts to draw in a deep breath against the will of his taut, tense body. He's too tired, sick and completely drained to respond, so he resorts to that familiar, effortless quiet. We both sit in complete, comforting silence for a significant amount of time and let the enormity of it all wash over us.

We're a family.

- The End -


End file.
